


The Visitor: A Dumbo 2019/ONCE Crossover.

by RT Fice (RT_Fice)



Category: Dumbo (2019), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Circus, Family Secrets, Gen, Magic, True Love (mentioned), brotherly hatred, crossing worlds, portal between worlds, sideshow freaks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:48:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24824833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RT_Fice/pseuds/RT%20Fice
Summary: The Medici Brothers Family Circus is used to people with extraordinary appearances.  But this stranger also carries a disturbingly otherworldly aura.  The man says he's come to audition for a place, but he seems to share a mysterious connection, and secret, with the vile roustabout Rufus Sorghum.
Relationships: V.A. Vandevere & Milly Farrier, Villy
Comments: 2





	The Visitor: A Dumbo 2019/ONCE Crossover.

**Author's Note:**

> While looking at photos of Rufus Sorghum and Rumple from ONCE I noticed a resemblance. I wrote this off the top of my head as a Tumblr minific.
> 
> *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**The Medici Bros. Family Circus. Joplin, Missouri. Early 1920.**

Whether the stranger wore a head-covering because of the punishing heat of the sun or to keep out the dust, Holt Farrier neither knew or cared. Why he’d asked for Rufus Sorghum raised a mote of curiosity, because the roustabout kept his personal life away from the circus grounds. No one ever came seeking unpaid gambling debt because Sorghum never lost, or, more likely, he never paid, and no one was stupid enough to pursue him to do so. So what this man wanted with Sorghum was as cloaked as the his face.

Holt gestured toward the tent far back from the others. Sorghum traveled with his own housing, for privacy. Which was just as well, because no one wanted to share a tent with him.

“Thank you kindly.” The stranger’s voice was high pitched and child-like. Holt was well steeped in a world of people with what the paying customers considered physical anomalies, so the weirdness of the voice didn’t startle him. Nor did the obvious attempt to conceal his face. But something about the atmosphere of the man now moving toward Sorghum’s tent did.

Rufus Sorghum heard approaching footsteps. He threw his ill-gotten gambling money into the cigar box, tucked the box in the false bottom of his trunk, then shut the truck just as a shadow fell on his tent flap.

A giggle piped through the flap’s opening. Sorghum froze.

“Are you doing as well as you hoped?” asked the voice, mischievously.

The arid, sandpaper words scratched from the roustabout’s throat. “ _Damn you_.”

The hooded man entered and shut the flap behind him. In the dull yellowish light created by sunshine on dirty canvas the man lifted his head. His eyes met Sorghum’s.

“As you well know, _brother_ ,” the smaller man said, “I already am.”

Rufus glared back.

“How th’ fuckin’ hell did you get here?” he snarled.

“It’s a long story, and I know you have no patience for stories.” The man tittered. He pushed back his hood.

His eyes were green, with enormous pupils. His skin was reptilian, his hair like Spanish moss. Small, jagged, sharp teeth grinned at the roustabout. His clothes were like those of three centuries before.

He scanned the straw mattress, beaten trunk, and single light bulb that hung in the stuffy air. He tapped the bulb with a long, pointed, glittery green-black nail. “Elec-tricty, is it? I suppose there are _some_ advantages to this world. Are there _others?_ ”

With a sudden movement the man opened the trunk. Before Sorghum could block him the other man held in one hand the Craps game cash, and photographs of naked women in the other.

“Put that goddamn back,” snarled Sorghum.

“Make me.” The man giggled. “Oh, you can’t, _can_ you? Was the trade worth it, _dearie?_ ”

The man’s eyes widened when the barrel of Rufus’ pistol touched his forehead.

“Want t’show me yer healin’ powers?” the roustabout hissed. An acidic smile spread on his lips. “Aw, wait, ya can’t, _can_ ya? No magic here, _dearie._ ” He pushed the barrel tip harder against the crocodilian skin. “So what th’ fuck you doin’ here, Rumple?”

The man replied, “I’m merely _visiting_.”

“How is that even possible? Th’ portal only works _one way_.”

“A _temporary_ one opens _both_ ways.” Rumple sneered at the gun. “Is this some sort of weapon? Am I being _threatened_?”

The barrel shifted. The shot made the green-skinned man jump. Sorghum’s laughter sounded like barking.

A stampede thundered toward the tent. Max Medici and Holt yanked back the flap. Holt had his own pistol at the ready. Puck, Ivan, and Rongo carried baseball bats.

“What the hell–” Max didn’t finish his sentence.

Medici had seen all manner of human “abnormalities.” People with three legs, twins literally joined at the hip, people with no arms or no legs or none of either whatsoever. He’d only just lost “The Bearded Lady” when Minnie eloped with Itchy McPhee, one of the roustabouts. But _this_ guy….

“ _Whoa_ ,” said Max.

“There a problem?” Holt kept his pistol cocked. 

“I’ve come to apply for a _position_ , dearie,” the small, alligator-faced man stated. “For _some_ reason they wouldn’t hire me at the Mercantile.” He waved his long, clawed fingers at the smoking gun and the bullet hole in the tent pole. “ _Cousin_ Rufus was inspired to demonstrate his marksmanship. Why, to think when we were mere lads his forte was with a _lance_.”

His giggle gave them all the creeps.

“Uh, let us retire t’my quarters if we’re gonna do business.” Max saw possibilities, maybe even profitable ones.

*~*~*~ *~*~*~ *~*~*~ *~*~*~ *~*~*~ *~*~*~ *~*~*~*

“I gotta say,” said Max, pouring the illicit Scotch after blowing the unidentifiable dead bug out of the shot glass, “your look alone will do it. And th’ costume’s a nice touch. But do ya have a _gimmick?_

Rumpelstiltskin, which Max assumed was a stage name, was settled back in the cracked leather sofa crammed into Max’s caboose. His eyes were disconcerting.

“His gimmick,” growled Rufus from the other side of the caboose, “is bein’ an asshole.”

Rumple gasped and laid his clawed fingers decorously on his chest.

Being an asshole was hardly a disqualification in a circus. Max sensed family tensions, but that was common as well. It was only a problem is it disrupted an act.

Rumpelstiltskin showed Max that his leathery green palms were empty, twirled his hands in the air, and with a flourish produced a beautiful necklace.

“Taa daa!” he cried.

Max was not impressed.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“ _Weeellll_ ,” said the man, “I can concoct spells to open bridges between worlds.”

“Worlds.” Max decided to risk following this; maybe it would lead to something worthwhile. “Ya mean like Venus an’ Mercury?”

“Not yet. Between worlds steeped in magic and one without.”

“Uh huh.” Max sighed, sensing an approaching dead end. “So can people from the world that doesn’t got magic go to one that does?”

“Not if that’s where they began.”

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t really help me any. And why would someone who’s from a place _with_ magic wanna go to one without?”

“Perhaps so someone can see whether their idiot younger brother regrets stealing a certain object, opening a portal, and vanishing with his elder brother’s gold.”

Max glanced from Rufus and the strange new guy. He heaved a deep sigh.

“When can ya start?”

*~*~*~ *~*~*~ *~*~*~ *~*~*~ *~*~*~ *~*~*~ *~*~*~*

“When does it close?” Rufus spoke quietly, glaring at his older brother who was smiling at him in a disturbing fashion through the rusted bars of the decrepit lion cage set on the Midway. It was hidden behind a red curtain; customers would have to pay 15 cents to see “The Crocodile Man.”

Rumple was completely at ease. He shrugged. “Soon enough. So where did you bury it?” 

Rufus remained silent.

“Don’t worry, dearie, you can _keep_ it. It’s not like I can’t make _more_. It’s just the _principle_ of the thing. You murdered my footman, you beat my servants, and then you stole the portal bean. It _irked_ me. My goodness, killing innocent, helpless villagers in King George’s name wasn’t _enough_ for you?”

Slowly, Rufus drew his pistol from his back pocket. “You shoulda stayed on that side. Knowin’ you can come an’ go…I can’t allow that.”

The sound of the hammer cocking was lost under the sound of the curtain being pulled back.

The emerald eyes of the seventeen-year-old woman fixed on the two men. The pistol was stowed in Sorghum’s back pocket, partially concealed by his vest. As he was never unarmed, Milly Farrier paid no attention. It was Sorghum, not his weapon, whose presence she hated.

“Mr. Stiltskin, I brought your dinner.” She opened the fake lock on the cage’s door and offered him the wooden tray covered with gingham cloth.

“Ooo! Yummy!” With glee Rumple reached for the tray.

For a second, only a second, his fingers touched hers. As he took the tray, as she stepped back, embarrassed, his eyes grew wide. He slowly blinked at her. 

Milly blushed, without knowing why. His appearance didn’t bother her – she was a circus child. But the touch felt as if he’d gathered something intimate from her, of which she was unaware and with which she wouldn’t have willingly parted.

“Oh,” breathed the man, “he loses his soul to you.”

“What?” It was Rufus, not Milly.

Rumple smiled. “Dearie, if I may be so bold, may I beg for one, just _one_ , of your beautiful hairs?”

“I’m sorry?” Milly wasn’t sure she’d heard right.

“It’s just a fancy of mine.” He tittered like a toddler.

Without thinking, Milly ran her fingers through one of the curling strands that had come free of her long braid and hung from her temples. A loose hair pulled free. The girl wrapped it around her forefinger, removed it, and placed it in the strange man’s quivering palm. His hand shut like a Venus Flytrap. Milly stepped back.

“I’ll be back for the tray before we let in customers.” She turned.

“Oh, don’t bother, my dearie!” Rumple called as the curtain closed and he heard her hurry down the wooden steps of the platform. He added, quietly, as he petted her hair, “I will be gone before then.”

“What th’ fuck ya want that bitch’s hair for?” snapped Rufus.

“ _Shut your foul mouth_.” The atmosphere within the curtain turned cold as Rumpelstiltskin stowed the strand into a small, gold box and pressed it deep into his vest pocket. “I must be going, brother.” He stepped through the door. “I have a meeting in New York.”

“How th’ hell you gonna get there?”

“Do you think I came without preparation? What is the one thing of which I have a _endless_ supply? Did I not know, as _you_ did when you escaped my pursuit, the _one_ thing to carry with me into this pale, sad, sorry world? Transportation is easy, when one has _means_.”

“You said th’ portal closes–”

“ _Soon enough_. I wasn’t _specific_ about the length of ‘soon.’“ Rumple sniffed.

“Ya think yer gonna be able t’ pass through New York lookin’ like–”

“ – like a ‘circus freak’ seeking employment from Mr. V.A. Vandevere, the impresario, the mogul, the tycoon, the Emperor of Dreamland?”

“Why th’ fuck ya wanna see _him?_ ”

Rumple patted his vest. “For one of his silver hairs.” He snorted with contempt. “You never did learn the potency of True Love.”

“ _True love?_ With who?”

“ _Whom._ Tut, tut. You came all the way here and you’re still ignorant and backward. You _lost_ the gold, didn’t you? Gambled it away? And forgot there was no big brother, no Dark One, whose coffers you could rob. You’re in the world of _limitations_ now, brother _dear._ _Enjoy it_.”

With that, Rumpelstiltskin took his hooded cloak from behind the fake cage and flung it on. Rufus, seething bitterness, watched his elder brother make his way toward the train platform.

**The End.**


End file.
